


Interval

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anton knew from the minute he came down the stairs. Sherlock was in the lull between contractions, resting against the wall and cradling his bump. Anton blinked, then smiled, and marked off the day with a black X. He gave Sherlock a kiss and inspected his belly one last time, then gave him a hug as a seal of approval. </p>
<p>----- Sherlock and John, along with sons Anton and Francis, await the arrival of baby Charon. -----</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interval

**Author's Note:**

> Gotta love some sweet parentlock. And overdue Sherlock.

There is a foot stuck in Sherlock’s ribs. 

 

“Now, then, Miss Thing. That’s enough from you,” he says, using his fingers to try and extricate the tiny appendage from his ribcage. He gets a thump from the non-stuck foot for his efforts, and grimaces and chuckles simultaneously. “She gets her feet shoved up there more often than the two of you did, combined,” he says, glancing up at his two sons, who are staring at him in gobsmacked awe. 

 

“You can feel her feet?” Francis says, and the corners of Sherlock’s eyes wrinkle as he smiles. 

 

“Yes, I can feel her feet. Acutely, when they’re stuck where they are. Charon, really - christ,” he grunts, pressing his fingers against her foot until it recedes slightly. He lets out a long sigh. “Do you want to feel them? They’re still up here,” he says, massaging the top of his belly, where he is certain bruises will bloom to life if little Charon keeps pummeling him from inside. 

 

Francis scrambles up onto the couch with all the precision a four-year-old can manage, and lets Sherlock guide his hand to the crest of his belly. Even through inches of womb, fatty tissue and skin, the ridges of Charon’s tiny feet can be felt pressing upward as she tries to stretch in her limited space. When Francis’ palm flattens out, Charon jerks, giving a tiny kick in reaction to his hand resting on her home. Francis giggles loudly and pats the spot, feeling Charon shift again. 

 

“Can I feel?” Anton asks, folding his hands in front of himself. Sherlock nods and gestures for him to join them on the couch. The eight-year-old does so with far more grace than his brother, and waits until Francis is satisfied before putting his hand on the spot. A smile spreads across his face when the baby moves again. “Hello, little sister,” he murmurs, and Sherlock can see the marvel in his expression. What a novelty it must be, to watch your sister grow and feel her inside her daddy’s belly. 

 

“She’s not misbehaving, is she?” John asks, stepping out of the bathroom. His hair is wet and water trickles down his legs despite the bathrobe he’s donned. “I should have known a little girl would be trouble from the start.” 

 

The boys both grin and settle in a little closer to Sherlock. He rolls his eyes as Charon’s foot slides back up into his ribs and then settles there as if content. “Any child of yours is trouble,” he says, shaking his head. 

 

“Hark who’s talking,” John returns. “What do you think, boys? Only a few days until she’s supposed to be here, are you ready?” He tilts his head to the right, gesturing toward the wall calendar. The upcoming Saturday is circled in red, though the likelihood of Charon arriving precisely on schedule is close to nil. Anton was four days early, Francis came five days late. Sherlock hasn’t felt any indication of Charon’s arrival yet, so he thinks she’ll beat Francis by at least a few days. Unfortunately. 

 

“I’ve been keeping our room tidy so she can play with us,” Anton pipes up proudly, patting his daddy’s belly. “I know she’ll be too little to _really_ play, but maybe she can come up and watch us play. We’ll be nice to her.” 

 

Francis chimes in with an enthusiastic ‘Yeah!’ “I’ll let her hold the bee toy, daddy, she can play with it and Anton can teach her about bugs. Do you think she’ll like bugs even though she’s a girl?” 

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Do you think only boys can like bugs?” he asks a bit archly, and hears John snort from the kitchen where he’s making evening tea. 

 

As if reciting something from memory, Francis shakes his head. “She can like bugs, and I can like dollies. Anton likes dollies, don’t you?” he says, peering around Sherlock’s belly to look at his older brother. 

 

“Dolls and pretty socks,” Anton confirms, a bit shyly. He was their first baby, and Sherlock and John had treated him like he was made of porcelain. He took after Sherlock’s mother in his nature, so soft and kind and proud of his work. Sherlock had wondered if they’d done something wrong when Anton first asked for socks with lace around the top, but John had said ‘sod it’ and bought him lacy socks in every color. So far it was the only non-conforming thing their oldest had done, but Sherlock was more certain than ever that he loved his children unconditionally, lacy socks and dollies and bugs and all. 

 

“Your daddy likes pretty socks too,” John says, winking a bit conspiratorially. 

 

“I like _expensive_ socks,” Sherlock corrects, and Francis giggles. “Unfortunately, boys, I don’t think that Charon will be joining us on Saturday. She doesn’t feel quite done yet. Needs a bit more time in the oven,” he says, patting his belly. 

 

Francis leans over and pecks a kiss on Sherlock’s stomach. “How much longer does she need?” he asks. Francis has been eager to meet his sister since he learned of her impending arrival. The novelty, Sherlock thinks, has worn off slightly for Anton. 

 

“That is a question to which I do not have the answer,” Sherlock replies. “She’ll come when she wants to come. And she’ll be a colossus when she does,” he says, shaking his head as he stares down at his belly. “I felt big when you came, Frankie, and you were only eight pounds. The doctors think she might be ten.” 

 

“Ten pounds isn’t that heavy,” Anton says, forehead creasing as he imagines all the things that weigh ten pounds. 

 

“Ten pounds isn’t heavy until you’re lugging it around between your hips, and it kicks you and punches you and wiggles around,” Sherlock says, and Anton exhales a small ‘ah’ in understanding. “One day you might know how I feel right now.” He smiles and lays a hand on his bump. 

 

“Do you think I’ll be an Omega, daddy?” Anton asks, and Sherlock sees the wonder in his eyes. “I think I want to be an Omega. I want to have babies like you do.” 

 

Sherlock shrugs and looks to John for input. “So far your blood tests aren’t showing anything,” John chimes in, carrying in a tray of mugs for everyone. “But you’re only eight, love, so it might be awhile before we know anything.” 

 

Anton sighs. “I hope I know soon,” he says, and Sherlock smiles and cards a hand through Anton’s blond curls. “Can I help you take care of Charon, though? Change her nappies and feed her?” he asks eagerly. 

 

“We’ll teach you how to change nappies. I’ll be feeding her, though,” Sherlock says, lifting a hand to rest on his chest. “But if I ever have to go away and I leave bottles, you can feed her. Okay?” 

 

Anton nods happily and settles back against Sherlock. The Omega slumps forward a little, hoping Charon will pull her foot out of his ribs and let him _breathe_ at last. No such luck. 

 

 

 

 

 

The day after Sherlock’s due date, the growing family decide to take a walk. The ache in Sherlock’s back has basically plateaued at this point, and walking around may start his labor. It’s better to be out of the house, at any rate. 

 

“Can we feed the ducks, papa?” Francis asks, tugging on John’s hand as they near the duck pond. “I’ll pay for the bread with my ‘lowance, promise.” 

 

“We can feed the ducks, and I’ll pay for it, love,” John smiles, altering their course to go to the vending machine. A bag of bread chunks is vastly overpriced, but it’s worth the change to see Francis happy. The four-year-old runs toward the pond with the bread bag, and Anton releases Sherlock’s hand to chase after his brother. John joins Sherlock and they follow their children at a much slower pace. 

 

“Still feeling alright?” John asks, sliding his arm around Sherlock’s swayed back. “Walking not too much for you?” 

 

Sherlock half-shrugs and tugs his shirt hem down a little. “I feel fine. Extremely pregnant, but that’s to be expected. It’s nice to be out of the flat.” 

 

John chortles and casts a glance at Sherlock’s belly. He’s gotten almost mind-bogglingly huge with this baby, and John doesn’t doubt for a minute that Charon will be every bit of nine pounds, if not the ten the doctors are predicting. Poor Sherlock. 

 

“She’s not done yet,” Sherlock adds at length. “Hasn’t dropped, so have pity on my lungs. It’ll be at least another few days.” 

 

John shakes his head in sympathy. “Sorry, love. I know you’ll feel so much better when she’s here at last.” 

 

Nodding, Sherlock squeezes John’s hand. They find a bench near the duck pond and watch their boys feed the ducks happily. 

 

 

 

 

 

With a sigh, Sherlock marks off another day on the calendar with a big, red X. Usually he marks off with black, but every day that he’s marked off after Charon’s due date without her arrival is marked red, as in ‘overdue.’ There are eight red X’s on the calendar now. 

 

They took Sherlock’s week 41 photo this morning. Right, front, left, back. He looks utterly pregnant from every angle. He hasn’t even bothered with real trousers this morning, just pulling on grey sweats and a previously loose t-shirt. “Charon, Charon,” he sighs, rubbing both hands over his bump. “I’m ready whenever you are.” 

 

Anton comes down the stairs brushing curls from his eyes. He blinks a little blearily at Sherlock, then at the calendar. “C’n I see, mummy?” he asks, scrubbing a fist against one eye. Sherlock smiles - it’s been a long while since Anton has called him ‘mummy.’ So long that Francis himself never picked up on the name, but it makes Sherlock’s heart warm regardless. 

 

Obligingly, Sherlock pulls his shirt up to rest beneath his swollen breasts. The sleep duly scrubbed from his eyes, Anton surveys the bump for a long minute, then lays his hands on it. It’s firm beneath his palms, Sherlock knows, the skin turgid and taut over Charon’s bulk. He’s sprouted even more deep purple stretch marks than he acquired with either of his previous pregnancies. Charon gives a small squirm, her head buried deep in Sherlock’s pelvis. 

 

Anton’s curiosity is sated after another minute or so, and he presses a brief kiss to the skin above Sherlock’s navel before stepping back and helping Sherlock pull the shirt back down. “I hope she comes soon,” he says, giving Sherlock a sleepy hug. 

 

“Me, too.” 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock groans into wakefulness just past three in the morning. As he waddles heavily into the bathroom, he contemplates marking off another red X on the calendar. They’re up to eleven of them now, and there’s a note scribbled on what would be day fourteen - ‘Caesarean, 12 noon.’ If she doesn’t come on her own before then, they’ll pull her out themselves. Sherlock shudders at the thought - as nauseating as the idea of naturally delivering a ten-pound baby is, the idea of tugging her from his body before she decides she’s ready is worse. 

 

This course of thought is cut short as he struggles to stand and wipe himself clean and catches sight of the slick, yellowish clump in the toilet bowl. “Decide it’s time, then, did you?” he grumbles, contorting to wipe and then flushing the contents of the bowl down. “Good thing, hmm. Not sure I could get any more pregnant.” He looks at himself in the mirror, pajama trousers slung low beneath his belly, the curve pushing out dramatically from between his hips and arcing upward, round and full and heavy. And _low._  

 

“Looking forward to meeting you, Charon,” he murmurs, turning the lights out and going back to bed. 

 

 

 

 

 

The first contraction rolls through just past 5:30 in the morning. Sherlock shudders awake and lays on his side, curled up as much as he can be around his enormous bump. He doesn’t wake John, not yet. Might as well let him get sleep while he can. 

 

He times them for awhile, then stops. It’s obvious that he’s in labor, he can feel it in his bones. The deep ache, shifting gradually downward, and Charon’s still. Waiting patiently, as she has been for weeks. He’s ready. 

 

John wakes up around eight and pads to the bathroom. He returns to check on Sherlock, as he has every morning for the past three weeks. “Alright?” he asks, and Sherlock savors this last moment of normalcy. 

 

“I’m in labor,” he responds, and grins at John’s sharp inhalation of breath. “Strong, steady contractions. Passed my mucous plug around three. Labor started at half five.” He pries his eyes open and looks up at John, holding out a hand. 

 

“About damn time,” John breathes, and laces his fingers with Sherlock’s to squeeze hard. 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock gave birth to Anton and Francis in hospital, but this time he’s going to a birthing centre. He knows what he’s capable of, and knows what environment he wants to labour in to bring his daughter into the world. For now, he labours at home. 

 

Anton knew from the minute he came down the stairs. Sherlock was in the lull between contractions, resting against the wall and cradling his bump. Anton blinked, then smiled, and marked off the day with a black X. He gave Sherlock a kiss and inspected his belly one last time, then gave him a hug as a seal of approval. 

 

Francis let out a shriek when Sherlock broke the news. “She’s coming!” he crowed, running circles around the kitchen table in excitement. John gathered their youngest son into his arms to slow him down, then satisfied him with kisses until he calmed enough to let him go. “Come on Charon, I wanna meet you,” he cooed to Sherlock’s bump, nuzzling his cheek against it with a wide smile. 

 

“She’s coming, don’t you worry,” Sherlock replied, letting his eyes fall shut as he cupped Francis’ head and held him close. 

 

 

 

 

The morning passes slowly and afternoon starts to creep in before Sherlock feels any sense of urgency. He expected this labour to move faster than the others, and it has - but still, a labour takes hours. This he knows. 

 

John’s doing one last check of their hospital bag and helping Anton and Francis pack their overnight bags - they’ll be staying with Greg until Charon arrives. Mrs. Hudson offered to keep them, but this way they’d be allowed to come home and settle in for an hour or so before the boys came back home. 

 

This contraction shakes through Sherlock with an intensity that tells the Omega it’s _time._ He moans lowly, eyes squeezed tight shut, and leans against the wall heavily. Charon’s bulk hangs low in front of him, his muscles straining to push her in, and down, and out. He can feel her weight, her size, and knows it’s going to be soon. “John.” 

 

“Time, love?” he hears John reply, and the quiet sound of a bag being set on the floor. “That sounded like a good one.” 

 

Sherlock shakes his head wordlessly. After two children, and such a long pregnancy with their third, it is no surprise that John understands. 

 

Francis sniffles a little when he hugs Sherlock goodbye, but shoulders his bag like a proper young man. Anton smiles and squeezes Sherlock’s hand, and hugs his papa too, before leading Francis downstairs to meet Greg. Sherlock heaves a sigh when the door shuts, and the sigh morphs into a low groan. He is unmistakably close. 

 

The cab ride to the birthing centre is uncomfortable, to say the least. Sherlock’s legs are splayed wide, his mountainous bump hanging low in front of him, and he struggles through four contractions en route. The last one leaves him gasping and sweaty. He is thankful for the small blessing of an extra-wide wheelchair when they arrive. 

 

“What time is it?” he asks sometime soon after their arrival. He’s lost track, himself, his mental faculties shutting down to their basest needs as his body concentrates on its most important task. 

 

“Just past seven,” comes the answer. John has unpacked part of the bag - nappies, take-home outfit, a blanket - and is taking off his own shoes and getting comfortable, now that Sherlock’s settled in. “Still feeling alright?” 

 

“She’s going to be here soon.” Sherlock is sure of it. It’s been just over - what, thirteen hours? since his labor started, and already he feels like he’s on the cusp of pushing. Francis had taken eighteen, Anton an agonizing twenty-three. Charon’s making up for lost time. 

 

When Sherlock feels John’s hands envelop his, he opens his eyes and looks up. John’s eyes are as full of love as they’ve always been, tears spilling over to accommodate for the extra love he’s giving Sherlock today. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs, and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock smiles and squeezes his hand back. 

 

True to his word, Sherlock is pushing within the hour. John has helped him onto his knees, and he’s sideways on the bed, forearms resting hard on John’s shoulders. He knows John’s shoulder will be in agony tomorrow, but right now, he needs him like this. He needs John’s physical support as much as he does his emotional support. 

 

Sherlock bites back a harsh cry as he releases from one of his hardest pushes yet. He’s been going strong for half an hour now, but his strength is flagging. Charon is _large_. “Your contractions are still strong, Sherlock, we just need you to keep it up. We can see you bulging when you push, she’s getting close.” There’s a chorus of support from the other staff in the room, everyone there to help cheer him on through his labour. 

 

“She’s _huge,_ ” he grunts, and hears a few titters of laughter. “I’m not kidding. She’s over ten pounds.” There are no titters then, and the mood shifts a little. Apparently not all the nursing staff were debriefed. 

 

“We know she’s big, Sherlock. But you’ve done this twice before, and you can do it again. We know you can.” The doctor kneads his thigh encouragingly, and Sherlock nods sharply. 

 

“I know you can,” John echoes, kissing the sweaty crook of Sherlock’s neck. “Just think - the quicker you shove her out, the sooner you’ll not be terrifically overdue anymore.” That pulls a laugh from Sherlock’s throat, and he bears down again. 

 

A roar makes Sherlock’s throat feel raw, but at the end of the noise he hears cheers. “You got her head out in one go,” John updates him, and Sherlock sighs and sags against him a bit. “Slid out like a cork, it did. Almost done.” He kisses his jaw. 

 

Doggedly, Sherlock pushes again. He can’t feel much beyond the stretch and fullness, but he’s starting to feel emptier. She’s almost here - Charon is almost with them. 

 

His world narrows down to pushing. Heaving breaths, and pushing. Keening into John’s shoulder, and pushing. Bearing down over and over, working to expel her body from his. Pushing. Pushing. 

 

His blood is rushing, a dull roar in his ears. He hears John’s voice from far away, and then - the weight within him drops. He gathers all his remaining strength and heaves once more, and with a slick rush, he feels Charon’s body slide from his. 

 

“Give her here,” he says blearily, twisting away from John. He is desperate to see his baby girl, this creature he’s grown within him for almost forty-two weeks. They start to take her away, to cut her cord and swaddle her, but Sherlock snaps again and John quietly asks them to hand her up now, please. How Sherlock adores John. How he adores —

 

She is laid in his arms, squalling and squirming and purple. Thick, dark hair, plastered in curls against her scalp. “Took that extra time to grow a full head of hair, did you?” he asks her tearfully, gathering her close to him with shaking hands. Charon wails in reply, her feet kicking as they did when she was inside him. “Do your feet miss my ribs? Do they?” he asks, his voice breaking. How beautiful she is. How perfect. 

 

“You were worth the wait,” he assures her, and bends down to kiss her slick forehead. 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock is settled in on the sofa, half-sitting, with Charon nursing at his breast when he hears elephants mounting the stairs. Charon’s eyes open at the noise and her arm waves, but she doesn’t pause in her suckling. “Get ready to meet your brothers,” he tells her, and smiles at John as he passes the sofa to open the door. 

 

“Is she here?” Francis asks excitedly, dropping his bag and kicking off his shoes. He runs around the sofa and skids to a stop in front of Sherlock. He blinks and looks at her, wide-eyed. “Woah.” 

 

Anton comes up behind him, far calmer but no less excited. “Hi, Charon,” he says quietly, taking a step forward and peering at her. “Do you remember us? We felt you kicking a lot. We’ve been waiting for you.” 

 

Sherlock smiles up at the group of them, his three boys, all looking proud and awed at the tiny creature nursing from her father. “She’s been waiting to meet you, too.” As if in agreement, Charon lifts one tiny hand, waves it, and lays it back down on Sherlock’s chest. Tiny, warm. Perfect. 

 


End file.
